From the floor, I watch Azrael’s feet as he shoulders past Beelzebub, down the center aisle and out the door.
Beelzebub stands with his arms folded, surveying the crumbling church.
“Get up,” he tells Obie, who’s lying on the dais with his bleeding hands over his face, smoke rising from his clothes in tendrils.
Obie rolls onto his hands and knees and pushes himself to his feet. When he stands, his arms are torn from the barbs, bleeding in little trickles. He tries to untangle himself, but the wire catches at his skin. He’s bleeding from so many places. Truman is the one who goes to him and draws out the nails. He does it carefully. Then, with uncommon tenderness, he begins to untangle the wire.
I climb the dais slowly, pressing my hands to my head. My whole scalp feels raw.
Beside me, Obie is shaking a little, looking stunned. Truman offers him Raymie and he takes her, staring down into her face like he can hardly believe that she’s real.
“Are you okay?” I ask. My voice is unsteady.
He shakes his head, but he’s smiling in a crumpled, heartbroken way, holding Raymie to him. She wraps her arms around his neck and doesn’t say anything.
Beside us, Truman looks magnificent in the sunlight streaming through the open door. The morning lights his hair a pale, pristine gold. In the bright splash of light, I sit down on the end of the nearest pew, covering my mouth with my hand to keep the sounds from getting out. I don’t even know if they’re laughing sounds or crying. There is a glorious life out there and everything is waiting for me. For us.
“Come on,” Truman says, reaching for me, offering his hand. “Don’t do that. We did good.” He pulls me so I’m standing next to him. “Everything’s fine.”
He leans sideways and kisses me on the cheek, a quick, playful gesture. I smile without thinking about it. I want coffee, and also pie. Maybe even ice cream. I want laughter and kissing and everything there is, and it doesn’t even matter if I get it. This is the world, for good or ill. This is us not being terrible people.
Beelzebub is standing at the double doors, looking so heroic, ready to lead us outside, like this moment is all he’s been waiting for. Truman and I start toward the door, but then I glance over my shoulder.
Obie is standing in the little baptistry, beside the font of holy water. He’s holding Raymie against his shoulder, but his eyes are unfocused. The look on his face is desolate. With a nod in his direction, I pull my hand from Truman’s and go to him.
There are little carved saints around the archway. They’re so old that their noses have worn off. We stand in the dark, facing each other. The air smells like flowers.
“I’m sorry,” I say, coming up beside him. “I know what he was doing to you in here. That he was killing—that he was killing people. I’m sorry it took so long to stop it.”
Obie nods and looks away. “It’s not your fault. Beelzebub—” He closes his eyes and his voice breaks. “Why didn’t he come for me sooner?”
“You disappeared,” I say apologetically. “He didn’t know where you were. None of us knew how to find you.”
But as soon as I say it, the words feel wrong, because Beelzebub strode into the church through the front door like a man on a mission, like he already knew exactly what he would find.
Obie blinks dazedly, glancing toward the door. “What’s he doing now?”
“I think he wants to have a talk with Truman, just the two of them. I don’t know if you knew, but he’s Truman’s father. That’s why he had you take him back when Truman showed up in Pandemonium.”
Obie is holding Raymie tight against his chest, looking so disoriented, so tired. “He went out of his way to send Truman back to Earth, then just abandoned him again?”
“Not abandoned. He just returned Truman to his normal life.”
Obie shakes his head. “There was nothing normal about it. Azrael’s spent the last year breaking Truman down in some stupid attempt to redeem him. If Beelzebub cared about Truman so much, why would he let Azrael do that to him?”
At first, I don’t even understand the question. The answer to it is apparent in the way that Obie is holding Raymie. The way he never told Azrael how to find her, even under torture. Even under penalty of death. “Well, I guess because Truman’s his son. He just didn’t want him to wind up in Hell.”
“Oh,
no
.” Obie reaches for my arm suddenly, fingers digging into my shoulder. “Run.”
I stare up and he lets me go.
“Run, now. Stop him!”
And I twist away, bolting for the doors.
Outside, Beelzebub is walking beside Truman. They seem a long way off. As I leap down the steps, Beelzebub stops, resting his hand on Truman’s arm. I can’t hear what they’re saying.
I’m closer now. But I won’t reach them in time.
MARCH 11
O DAYS 0 HOURS 0 MINUTES
“J
ust hold still,” Beelzebub said. The barrel of the handgun looked nearly red in the glow of the sun. “In a moment, everything is going to be so much better.”
RUIN
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
B
eelzebub smiles.
Then, he levels the gun and shoots Truman Flynn, twice in the chest, once in the head. The sound is very loud.
From the steps of the church, I watch Truman fall and it’s like watching through glass. I can only stand with my hands pressed to my mouth, thinking I am not seeing this, this is not how it’s supposed to end. Truman was mine. He was finally free. We were supposed to be happy.
He’s on his back, head tilted limply like he’s staring up at the sky, and in the next moment, I’m on my knees beside him, touching him frantically, trying to find a heartbeat. In a movie, any movie, he would say something with his last breath, declare his love, his absolute devotion.
There is no breath. His ribcage is still, his mouth slightly open, and all I’m left with is a body.
I stare up at Beelzebub, waving my hands above the wreck of Truman’s chest. “What did you do to him?” My palms are covered in blood.
Beelzebub looks down at me, smiling the kindest, saddest smile. “I sent him home.”
“What?” My voice is so small.
“Home. He’s gone to a better place.”
“No . . . no, he can’t.” But even as I say it, I know that he’s gone, has gotten out. He’s gone someplace I can never go.
There’s a feeling inside me like things are coming apart and it turns into a noise and the noise is coming out of my throat, breaking all the glass. My hands and face are sticky. On the pavement, spreading from underneath Truman, is a dark pool that grows and grows. When I look down into it, I see my own reflection.
A raw wail spills out my mouth like pieces of sharp metal. From far away, a car alarm goes off, then another, until the street is full of their steady throbbing. There’s the dull popping noise of a street light exploding. The noise travels down the block, fainter and fainter, mixing with the shimmering sound of glass on the sidewalk.
Beelzebub takes me by the arm and pulls me to my feet. Truman’s body goes sprawling out of my lap onto the pavement, and with it, there’s a huge splash of blood.
“Get a hold of yourself.” He gives me a shake and I don’t do anything. Even as he holds me, my knees start to buckle.
“Daphne, listen to me. This is the best thing for him. It was the only way for him to receive grace, the only way to give him what he needed. ”
I can feel the blood on my skin, trickling down my arms, dripping from my fingers. This can’t be me shrieking. This is not me.
PART THREE
HEAVEN
GRAY
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
H
ome is colorless. Clean, and smaller than I remembered. It’s peaceful and perfect like a snow globe, like a dream I had.
I’m still wearing Truman’s sweater. It’s the only thing I have left.
THE TRAITOR
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
W
hen I cross the plaza with the mural of the giant snake coiled at the center, it’s because there’s a hollow in my chest, and because I can’t think where else to go. Time feels like a never-ending loop, winding back on itself.
The doors to the museum look forbidding in the gray light. I step inside and he’s there like always, my teacher, my friend. Truman’s father. He hasn’t even bothered to alter his routine. He just sits there at his desk, like everything is normal. He glances up, flies buzzing around him. From where I stand at the end of the gallery, I can’t even tell if he looks sad.
“What have you done?” I say, letting the door slam shut behind me.
When he answers, it’s with absolute courtesy. “I shot my son in the head. You don’t have to ask—you were there.”
“Why?”
I want to scream it, but it comes out thin and hoarse. I want to feel angry, but my crying is insistent, constant. It soaks everything.
Beelzebub just watches me walk up the aisle toward him, looking so serene, so untroubled. I expect him to say “
c’est la vie
,” or something else in French, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t say anything. He spreads his hands in a gesture that reminds me so much of Truman that something aches in my chest.
“You gave my brother to Azrael,” I say. My voice is louder now, echoing all around us in sharp, horrible fragments. “How could you do that? How could you just give someone away to be tortured and killed?”
Beelzebub shakes his head, smiling so gently. “We all have to make a few sacrifices to get what we want.”
I step closer, holding my arms around myself. “What could you possibly want from Azrael?”
“Heaven,” he says, and the word sounds wistful. The way he says it, he might as well be saying
oblivion
.
“That’s ridiculous. It’s not even possible. We don’t
get
Heaven.”
“It wasn’t for me.” Beelzebub sighs and leans back in his chair. “When I sent Truman home from the terminal, I knew if I didn’t do something, he’d wind up right back here, so I went looking for a favor. I told Azrael that Obie was messing around on Earth. There may or may not have been talk of an address. All the arm-waving and the theatrics, though, that was pure Azrael.”
I stand in the doorway to the office, shaking my head. “You used my brother as a bribe—to what? Buy Truman’s way out of Hell?”
Beelzebub’s face hardens. “I would have given Azrael Obie and your sisters and anything he wanted, rather than let that kid scream out his eternity in this house of horrors.” He smiles and it’s the most awful thing. “My heart may be black as rot, Daphne, but I’m not about to let my children suffer.”
“You deceived me.”
Beelzebub shakes his head. “I tried to keep you out of this, every step of the way. If you want to lay blame, blame your mother. You never should have been involved.”
But it’s absurd to blame any of this on my mother. Even if I’d been obedient, stayed here and waited for someone to fix things, I’d have lost Obie. I’d still be grief-stricken. The only difference is, I wouldn’t be stuck crying.
“How could you expect to just get away with something like this?”
Beelzebub looks frankly shocked. “I
don’t
. That’s really the trade-off, isn’t it? We all have to make sacrifices from time to time—if not our safety or our belongings, then our pride or our principles. I mean, look at Azrael. He’s spent the last year trying to make Truman worthy of Heaven and losing the battle every step of the way. But despite everything, he never gave up. After all, we had an agreement.”
“He terrorized Truman. He spent the last year telling him how bad he was.”
“The method may have been a little lacking. Truman strikes me as the type who could have used a softer touch. Ironically, I think it was his love for
you
that finally made him worthy.” He smiles easily. “I’d imagine that made Azrael absolutely furious, so good work there.”
I cross the office and slam my hands down on Beelzebub’s desk. “Stop—stop acting like nothing happened! Truman is
dead
.”
“Yes, he’s dead—for the only reason that matters. He died for redemption. I gave him redemption, even if
I
will never be forgiven.”
I turn and stare out into the gallery at all the miscellany, the trash. The museum, full of nothing but cheap, worthless clutter, artifacts that are only precious to him. Somewhere in the crowded shelves is a piece of every life he’s ever lived, everyone he’s ever lost. The museum is a constant reminder of all the things he cannot have.
“You sacrificed everything,” I say, shaking my head and turning to look down at him. “Even the things you should have protected. You might have saved Truman, but you ruined
me
.” I fold my arms across my chest, and even though the tears are running down my face, I feel my mouth turn ugly. “What’s it like, not caring about anyone but yourself?”
His smile is gone as though I’ve slapped him. “I’ve
always
cared about you. I’ve loved you like my own blood.”
And I laugh at that, at the sheer absurdity of it. He put a bullet through his own son’s head to save him. His love means nothing. “I believed you once.”
He smiles, reaching across the desk to touch my face. “Of course you did.” Sighing, holding my face in his hands. “I remember the first time I saw your mother. She was distant and pale, standing on the surface of the ocean. There was a look on your father’s face when he saw her, like he was already forgetting our war, seeing his next conquest. It seemed like I was bleeding from everywhere. I knew everything would be terrible from then on.”
I want to start sobbing, but I’m stuck. The tears just keep dripping down my cheeks, running over Beelzebub’s hands. “Why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t you tell him not to go to her, to walk away?”
“When it comes to your mother, nothing has ever been simple. She and your father are so alike. Can you imagine refusing them anything?” He looks at me, looks, looks, looks, and his face is so open and so full of sorrow. “The strong prevail. This is just the way of the world.”